Things That Are True - I am Unique. Also Awesome.

"What makes you unique?" asks Nadine of todaysparent.com.

"I am AWESOME!" I want to roar back into the internet. "I am excellent; I know how to use a semi-colon! I know things. I have thoughts. I am articulate about them!"

Unfortunately, every time I sit down to write a post about my strong voice, my principles, and my dorky love of grammar, I come up empty. It's very much like a job interview I once had.

"What are your best qualities for this position?" asked the interviewer.

"I'm detail-oriented, deadline-driven, and have strong communication skills," I replied confidently. Then he asked me how my communication skills were strong, and I completely blew it. Couldn't think of a single example. I stammered, and blushed, and felt like I might wet my pants. It was awful.

I've always been great when I'm just thrown into a situation – figure it out on the fly and get it done. Ask me to trumpet my own qualifications? I turn into an idiot. Who almost wets her pants.

I don't know why this is. I'm not exactly modest:

My own business cards decry my awesomeness

I'm quick-witted, and funny, and well-read, and I've been all over the world. I can hold my own in any room. I can dance in heels until two in the morning. I speak English, French, and Spanish. Despite having grown up in a tiny town in the Yukon, I'm living in the heart of Vancouver, and I do okay. I know how to play guitar, and will play and sing badly but enthusiastically for anyone who will listen. I was once the chick singer in an R&B/Funk band, and I played the tambourine like nobody's business. I worked for twelve years in Vancouver's film and television industry, and was really good at it. I am an eighteen years sober recovering alcoholic. I've come out the happy side of an abusive relationship. Despite not really knowing how to use my camera, I take pretty good photographs. I am an expert in packing light.

I am a fiercely loyal friend. I eat my own body weight in chocolate on a daily basis, but if I had to choose between chocolate and cheese for the rest of my life, I would choose cheese. I'm not capable of not welling up if I see someone crying. I no longer own a car; I cycle everywhere. I'm a real brunette. I'm a damned fine cook. I turned forty without losing my mind. I hate it that I can always see the other guy's side of the argument. I own my own business designing little boys' clothes. I know all the words to the "Big Bang Theory" theme song. I have a crush on Peter Mansbridge. I will never tell you something looks good on you if it doesn't just because it's on sale. I live in a 900 square foot apartment in the heart of downtown Vancouver and never want to own a house or have a yard.

I suck at parenting sometimes, but I mostly get it right. I suck at being married sometimes, but mostly get that right, too. I write about the times that I get it wrong, and I write about the times that I get it right.

One of the times we all got it right

And here are three of the times I've written about things that matter to me:

My thoughts on Remembrance Day at Vancouver Mom

Stargazing

International Women's Day



This post was written as a job application, of sorts. I'm hoping to be considered for a blogging gig at todaysparent.com. I sure hope they don't ask me about my communication skills.

Friday Confession - Impostor

I spend a lot of time avoiding doing the very thing that I love most.

I know. It makes no sense.

But it's true. I alphabetize things that don't need it, I cook, I clean, I sleep, I watch tv, I surf the web. I spend too much time on twitter. I do anything but write.

It's ridiculous. I've been writing in journals and notebooks, scribbling on the backs of envelopes and bar napkins, and composing letters in my head for as long as I can remember. (Okay, maybe not the bar napkins. That was a later development.) I started this blog as a place to organize my thoughts, share my ideas, and have a living record of my experiences as a parent. I love the sense of community it gives me, the power inherent in having a voice (whether anyone listens or not) and the thrill of learning from others who've trodden the path before me or are walking by my side.

And yet, I don't write. I avoid it like... I dunno. Laundry? I hate laundry. Avoiding that makes sense.

Fear, friends. Fear is the dream killer.

It's not interested in what makes sense. It doesn't care what's rational, or even what's true. Its only focus is to prevent risk. Any risk, real or perceived. And imaginary risk is its specialty.

Fact: All my life I have longed to be a real writer.

Jebus. Just typing that out loud has made my hands shake.

So yes, I've longed to be a real writer, whatever that is. (Is blogging writing?)

I even managed in second year university to enroll in Creative Writing 100, with the intention of majoring in that or journalism. I went to the first class; it was all about poetry. We were assigned to write an autobiographical poem. The night before the class, drunk in the student pub, I dashed off a few lines of suckage and handed it in at the second class.

The third class, the prof gave a prize (one of her own books of poetry, she probably had a basement full of them) for the best poem. To me. She thought my poem was the best of what had been handed in.

I knew it was a piece of crap.

I never went back to that class again.

I haven't really ever told that story.

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The tyranny of the blank page

People I respect and admire have told me they enjoy my blog. Out loud I thank them; inside my head I'm immediately discounting what they say. Based on my twitter stream, I've been told by someone who writes! professionally! that I should write a book. I joke that she's crazy. "From your mouth to a publisher's ear," I grin.

Recently at a party, I was introduced to someone as "Alexis, a very talented writer" and I almost fell out of my shoes. The Fear That Rules Me screamed, "No, no, no. Don't be ridiculous!" I managed to keep my game face on and shake hands like a normal person, but inside I was ramping up all the old arguments for why the person was so wrong.

But that moment made me pause. It's always interesting to catch a glimpse of yourself as others see you, like a reflection in a shop window as you hurry by. And in a heartbeat, I decided to stop discounting what I do and say in this space.

It's not easy.

I feel like a fool most of the time.

But the other day, as I met a friend, a writer friend, for coffee and encountered another friend, another writer friend at the same time, I introduced the two, saying "David, this is Heather. She's a writer too!"

And for a split second, I allowed the "too" to include me.

Then I did a crazy, crazy thing. A few days ago, I submitted one of my own posts for BlogHer's Voices of the Year. This one.

This is progress, yes?